


When Dark And Cold Collide

by sevenpercent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Introspection, M/M, Podfic Available, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is in the throes of depression, spiraling out of control.  Sherlock is caught unaware of the situation until it becomes dire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Dark And Cold Collide

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings- contains explicit discussion of depression with mentions of suicide. If you are sensitive to these topics or find them disturbing, you are forewarned; read at your own discretion.

Waking to the sounds of cardiac and respiratory monitors was nothing new to John Watson. He was a surgeon after all. Somehow the soft rhythmic chime of the pulse oxometer contrasting with the airy percussion of the oxygen line was soothing. Then his chest rumbled, and he spasmed in a paroxysm of painful coughing. His chest ached with each breath, and his throat was arid and scratchy as he tried to swallow down some moisture, but there was nothing to swallow.

His arm went automatically to his chest, and he felt a gentle tension against his forearm, and he knew without looking that he was attached to an IV line, which he dragged with his movement. As he struggled to open his eyes, he was assaulted with the fluorescent overhead lights glaring at him, which seemed to intensify all of his senses. Suddenly, although every muscle in his body ached dully, the pain in his chest became sharp, each movement a knife twisting within him, and he struggled to keep his breathes smooth and even. Each inspiration became more shallow as he combated the piercing pain. He felt like he was suffocating, and he heard his own body’s response in the rapid increase of the tempo of the pulse monitor. Unable to get enough air into his lungs, he felt the onset of panic. His eyes flew open wide, and he tried to sit up, struggling against the blankets tucked around him. As his arms and legs started thrashing, the pulse probe unseated, and the nasal prongs supplying him oxygen were dislodged, further compromising his ability to breathe. The screaming alarms of the detached monitors merged with the whistling of incoming mortars, and he knew that his patrol was being targeted. Rounds of automatic fire surrounded him, and explosions were getting closer. He could feel the rumbling and the shaking of the ground beneath him. His men were screaming, they had been hit and needed his help. But John couldn't move, his shoulder and chest were on fire and blood was rapidly saturating his uniform. He tried to move, but his body betrayed him, collapsing. Around him, doctors and nurses were struggling to restrain him, ignoring the commands he was issuing to his imaginary colleagues, and his cries of “get down” and “incoming”. Finally a senior nurse arrived with the medication, reached for the IV line, inserted a syringe into the line, and sent the plunger home. In a few moments, John slowed, and stilled.

**

Sherlock Holmes sat on the armchair in John’s hospital room, his laptop warming his legs as he compiled the data from his most recent experiment. Fortunately, his task did not require much concentration. He was still flustered from the flurry of activity an hour before, when John, his flatmate, working partner, and the love of his life, awoke and started thrashing around, and a shipload of nurses and doctors came rushing in to attend to him. John was back asleep, having been sedated, which angered Sherlock immensely. John had been asleep at least four days, the doctors assured Sherlock that it was sleep and not a coma, and when he finally came round, the idiot doctors sedated him back into oblivion.

No one knew what was going on with John, not completely. Sherlock had been called by Mycroft, his older brother and boss, four days ago, and was told that John was in hospital. The last anyone knew, John had been in Devon house sitting for a friend of his. Sherlock had been on the continent on a case for the past 10 days, establishing the innocence of a member of the Swedish royalty. 

Mycroft knew only that an alert came up on John’s name when he was admitted to a hospital in Devon. Upon further questioning by Mycroft’s men, it was learned that John was brought to the hospital by the police, who had detained him the day before on an ASBO for public drunkenness. John had been in police custody, presumably sleeping it off, and became unresponsive.

Mycroft had John transferred to a private hospital in London. Once in London, it was established that John was suffering from exhaustion, and had severe pneumonia, but they had no history of what precipitated the exhaustion or the pneumonia. A full toxicology screen had been done, and no evidence of drugs or alcohol were found in his system. He had no external wounds.

For once Sherlock was left with a mystery that he could not explain. The doctors could give him no definite facts to work with, and John had been unconscious since Sherlock arrived at the hospital. He had hoped to know more before John awoke, but had resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to wait for John to recover sufficiently to explain the details.

**

John once again started to gain an awareness that he was in hospital. He struggled to remember what had happened, and where he was, but his memories remained like an escaping dream that was just out of reach. He heard the familiar beeping of monitors, and focused all his attention on that sound, trying to break through the veil of fuzzy and ephemeral thoughts. Gradually the sounds became crisp and solid, and he was able to open his eyes. He squinted against the assault of the light, and tried to take a deep breath, but found that he could not, that he could only take smaller measured breaths without aching. He heard scraping to his side, and slowly tilted his head to the sound. He tried to focus his eyes properly, but before he was able to, he felt a hand grasp his and hold tight.

“Sherlock….” He scratched out. He would recognize Sherlock’s hand in his anywhere. It took a tremendous amount of effort to get that one word out, and he closed his eyes again after the exertion.

“John…” Sherlock didn't know what else to say. He had been waiting for four days for the sandy haired man to rouse, but once he did, Sherlock was so relieved that his mind went blank. He just held John’s hand in his two, and bent over and kissed that hand, infusing all the affection that he felt for the man in that small gesture.

The nurses had heard the change in the cardiac monitors, and came to check on John. Seeing he was awake, they alerted the doctor in charge.

“God, John, I've been so worried…” Sherlock thought he saw the barest of smiles form on John’s face. They sat in silence, then John tried again to open his eyes, and this time he was able to focus on Sherlock. John saw how tired and worried his friend looked, more haggard than usual for Sherlock, even when he was used to going without sleep for days.

An older man in white lab coat, with a stethoscope around his neck, came briskly into the room. He looked at the electronic tablet in his hand, then placed it on the shelf just inside the door. He smiled, a forced look to his features, and introduced himself. “Hi Mister Watson, I’m Doctor Douglas Maberley, I've been taking care of you.” The introduction was unnecessary if his name badge was to be believed.

“It’s _Doctor_ Watson.” Sherlock intoned.

Dr. Maberley looked at Sherlock and frowned at being corrected before registering what Sherlock said. “My apologies, Dr. Watson.” His smile was still stiff. John merely looked at the man, having to concentrate just to do that. “How are you feeling?” He lifted a pen light towards John’s face and continued without waiting for a response. “Just look straight ahead.” He shone the light quickly into John’s right eye, then away, and into his eye and away, then repeated the procedure on the other side. Then he instructed John to look up, down, right and left, while he watched his patient’s eyes. “Good.” Maberley clicked off the pen light.

“Do you know where you are?” John hazarded a guess, “Devon?” The doctor look a bit worried, but Sherlock cut in.

“He was in Devon, before coming here.”

The doctor nodded in understanding. “Ahh… And what happened in Devon?”

John frowned at that, his brows furrowed, as he tried to think back.

Sherlock cut in “Is this necessary right now?” Sherlock wanted to know the same thing, but he found the doctor irritating, and he wanted the man to leave.

The doctor ignored Sherlock. “Can you remember what happened before… before you came here?”

John was thinking. He remembered going to Bill Murray’s to house sit. He was thankful for the chance to get away by himself. Lately he had been spending more time alone, preferring the solitude to companionship. Sherlock hadn't really noticed that John was home more than normal, or if he had, he hadn’t mentioned it. Some of his other friends had been teasing him about being a domestic man, now that he was with Sherlock, and not going out as much, and John just laughed it off. It was much better than going out and hearing the same stories over and over again. One more story about how cute someone’s kids were again, or how nasty someone’s wife was acting and he would actually vomit. The same people, his _friends_ , would ask how he was, but never waited to actually hear his reply. That was fair, he guessed, since he never had anything to say anyways. Nothing ever happened to him.

House sitting had been a good distraction. He didn't have to work, or pay bills, or pick up after himself, and being in Devon, he was far enough away that he didn't worry about people just stopping by. He could just sit and do nothing, sit around in his pants if he wanted to, and not be bothered to make excuses to anyone.

And he didn't have to worry about when he slept. Nights were long, and John often spent hours staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Or he got up and tried to read, but that wouldn't last either, his eyes got too tired, and he could not keep his concentration. He was restless, and sometimes he took a walk, just to pass the time, but the walks often ended early with John returning home just to lie back in bed.

John remembered being at Bill’s house, alone, ignoring his mobile and e-mail which he could do since he considered this his holiday. He remembered going for a walk late at night, unable to sleep, and stopping in the park near by. He didn't feel much like walking but what else was he to do? So he stopped in the park, found a bench and looked up at the stars. It was a cool evening, bordering even on cold, and he closed his eyes. He wasn't the least bit sleepy, though he was tired. Worn out, tired. The kind of tired you felt to your bones when you’d been working too much, or were on patrol every night for a fortnight, or pulled double shifts at the surgery several times in a row. He hadn't done any of those things, but he still felt tired to the core. So he sat.

And he was content to just sit there. For hours. He watched the lights of airplanes flying overhead as they navigated through the stars. He heard the occasional lorry thundering on the highway near by. He felt the rain start to fall, pattering on the bench next to him and saturating his jeans as he sat under the open sky. He felt a bit chilled, but he just didn't care. It was too much effort to get up and walk back to Bill’s house. It was much easier just to stay on the bench. There was no one to scold him about being out too late or getting wet.

And so he sat. It was late. He was soaked, but he wasn't bothered by that. He stretched out on the bench, laid out with his back along the length, his knees bent, and his feet flat on the seat. He crossed his arms behind his head and let the rain wash over his face. He closed his eyes. He felt his fingers and toes tingling, and he focused on that sensation, almost mesmerized as the prickling spread up his arms and legs. It was almost as if his hands and feet were ‘high’. But he hadn't taken any drugs, or drank any alcohol. He was just lying there, relaxing, not moving.

“Can’t remember anything?” John’s thoughts were disrupted by the ward doctor’s voice.

“Emm, I was housesitting…” John looked at the doctor, puzzled, and he realized he had questions of his own. “Emm, why am I here?”

The doctor looked at John, then he must have determined that John was coherent enough to talk intelligently with. “You came in from Devon, unconscious, low normal temperature, labored breathing, history of drunkenness.”

“No… I wasn't drunk…” John contradicted the doctor, but the doctor just ignored him.

“We ran labs, found a neutrophilia with a toxic left shirt, mild regenerative anemia, hypoglycemia, hyperkalemia, and elevated liver enzymes. The tox screen was clean.”

“So…” John was used to translating for Sherlock, “Mild anemia, high white cells indicating infection, low blood sugar, high potassium, and some active liver insult.” The doctor nodded in agreement.

“Thoracic radiographs showed a patchy interstitial pattern with air bronchograms evidence of lung lobe consolidation, and mild pleural effusion.”

John nodded and translated for Sherlock again. “Pneumonia.”

“Any coughing, fever, sore throat, lymphadenopathy that you remember?”

John shook his head. “No, nothing of the kind.”

“Any history of diabetes, or immunosuppressive disease?”

John shook his head again.

Dr. Maberley rubbed at his chin absently. “Well, you seem to have improved significantly on IV antibiotics, and you are awake now. Although I don’t know why you were unconscious for so long, or why the pneumonia hit you so fast and hard. And I don’t know why they called you drunk… do you remember any of it?”

John shook his head. Actually he did remember some of the events involving the police, but that was none of this doctor’s business. John could handle it himself. After all, he had done well enough this far in his life.

John looked over at Sherlock, whose piercing grey eyes were targeting John. The ex-soldier couldn't hold the gaze. It was as if Sherlock was reading his mind, and John didn't need that right now.

**

After the doctor completed his examination of John and left the room, John turned to Sherlock. He had lots of questions to ask, and he didn't care much for the doctor, so he had waited for Maberley’s departure.

“Sherlock, how long have you been here?”

Sherlock’s eyes had not left John since John had said that he did not remember anything. “Four days, sixteen hours, and…” he consulted his watch, “twenty-four minutes.”

John, used to Sherlock’s answers, just nodded. “You left your case…” He looked at Sherlock, surprised. John knew the work always came first.

Sherlock nodded. “I had all the data that I needed. The explanation was obvious.” John wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Sherlock left AFTER the case was complete. It would have been nice if Sherlock had dropped everything and left in the middle of things. But that wouldn't have been Sherlock. And there was one thing that John was very adamant about, and that was that he didn't want to change Sherlock. He loved Sherlock for who he was, all his faults included.

“So…how long have I been here then?”

Sherlock considered. “You arrived six hours before I did.” 

John nodded. He tried to figure in his head how long he had been in Devon then, but his mind wasn't working right. Sherlock noticed the concentration in his face, and the mounting frustration. John just took a deep breath and rubbed his temples with the finger and thumb of his left hand.

“John?” Sherlock took John’s other hand, concern radiating from his face. Sherlock wanted to ask, wanted to share with John what ever it was that he was holding in. But John didn’t let him.

“Sherlock…don’t.” And Sherlock saw two drips fall to the sheet below John’s face.

Sherlock had never felt so helpless before. He had never cared for anyone the way he cared for John. He was completely out of his element. He wished that John would open up to him, would share what ever it was that was bothering him. But for right now, he would abide by John’s wishes.

**

John felt crowded, almost panicky. He didn't mind Sherlock being with him. But he didn't feel up to having a lot of visitors. But here, in front of him, were Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade.

He liked them both well enough. That wasn't it. John just wasn't up for conversation. He didn't feel like pasting a smile on his face and acting as if everything was great. Coming up with small talk and being funny and witty like everyone expected. Not today. He didn't have the energy. That was understandable, wasn't it? He was, after all, recovering from exhaustion and pneumonia.

But here they were anyways. He could get through it. A few smiles. Deflect the questions back to Greg and Mycroft. People liked to talk about themselves. It would be easy enough to keep them talking, and keep the focus off of himself.

Then he could play his sick card, and hopefully no one else would come visiting.

**

John was thinking back to Devon. That was certainly one of the strangest nights of his life. Of course he had learned about it in medical school, but to be experiencing it himself was completely different, dream-like, and surreal. He hadn't realized what was happening at the time, but in retrospect, it was quite amazing.

It started at the park bench, he supposed. Laying there, on the bench, in the darkness and rain, letting the wetness permeate his every pore. He let his mind empty itself, and his body relax. He was so tired. Insomnia will do that to a person. The chill started setting in, first his toes and fingers, but gradually it crept up his arms and legs. The sensation was pretty amazing. Tingling, goose pimples, but not a simple wave of sensation, a prolonged unceasing one. A tingling that went right to the bones, not just on the skin, so persistent. It started washing over him, engulfing him. Almost like a small electric current was coursing through his body.

He found himself fascinated by it at the time. His mind started going through some of the medical explanation. Peripheral vasoconstriction, the bodies attempt to conserve heat by limiting loss through the skin, restricting blood flow to the extremities, the periphery cools, may turn blue from diminished circulation. The skin accounts for 90% of all heat loss, so peripheral vasoconstriction plays a major role in conserving heat.

Understanding the medical explanation while experiencing the electrical-like sensation of vasoconstriction was like reading about a destination in a black and white travel guide, and then being able to LIVE the vibrant sights, sounds, and scrumptious smells in 3-D. The one was only a shadow, a representation of the other. Living it, the electricity in his body, was so much more than he had imagined.

Shivering. The body’s reaction to cold. Muscle fasciculation without purposeful gross movement meant that all energy went to heat production. The sensation was remarkable really. Uncontrollable, mostly. He could stop the shivering if he willed himself, concentrated hard enough. But then the body took over again as soon as his concentration waned.

It was a most remarkable experience, walking into a dream and being able to live what he only read about. If he could have experienced all the medical conditions he read about in this way he may have stayed in medicine rather than going into the military. It brought everything to life and somehow made it much more interesting.

As he was lying on the bench, he realized that he felt no fear. No concern about any consequences of what was happening to his body, of the rain, the cold, the physiological cascade of responses. In _that_ respect, anyway, it was more like watching a movie or reading a book. It wasn't really real. The consequences, what ever happened, it didn't matter. Or maybe it was a video game that he could just hit the restart button on. Use up three lives and start over and try again. He felt completely detached from what was happening to his body. Fascinated. Captivated by the explanation of what he was feeling. But no fear.

He was interested in what would happen next, what he would feel, how he could bring the next chapter to life. He knew his blood pressure, heart rate and respiration rate would be slowing in response to the cold. Decreasing the metabolism was the physiological response to preserve heat. He hadn't counted his heart rate or respiration rate, and he didn't have a watch. And of course, he didn't carry a blood pressure cuff with him. So scratch monitoring those signs.

And he knew that his liver function would be slowing, his blood glucose would start dropping, his potassium levels would increase, and he’d develop a metabolic acidosis. He had no way to measure any of these changes either. Really rather dull.

And he’d have to slip a long way until his heart started beating irregular. If he’d ever get to that point, he’d likely already be too confused to notice.

As John remembered lying on the bench in the rain, Sherlock came into the hospital room and interrupted his thoughts.

“Hey” The genius greeted him in his baritone timbre.

“Hey Sherlock.” John smiled fondly.

Sherlock sauntered up to the bed, put his hand on the mattress and leaned against it as he gently kissed John. He sat on the bed besides John. “How are you feeling today?”

“Good. Fine.” John was nodding. Then he looked at Sherlock. “The doctor said that I might be able to go home later today. My labs look good, they just want to run one more follow up.” He thought Sherlock would be pleased.

“John… Are you sure that’s wise? They want you to go already?”

“What?” John was confused.

“It’s just that you've lost so much weight, two stone at least. You look so thin, when did that happen?” Sherlock looked concerned.

“Sherlock!!” John was angry. “What the hell! Don’t you want me to come home?...”

Sherlock was taken aback, and started stammering, which was rare.

“You know what?” John started pulling the tape off of his arm that held his IV in place. “I’m done. I’m _done_ here!” He pulled out the catheter from his forearm, and held his finger over the hole in his skin. He rolled out of the bed on the side opposite to where Sherlock was seated, and stomped over, bare footed, to the rolling bandage cart. He opened the top drawer, found a plaster, and applied it. Then he untied his hospital gown, and let it drop to the floor. He wasn't wearing anything underneath it.

John went to the wardrobe, naked, and rooted around. Under the spare blanket he found the pile of his clothes. He stepped into his pants and jeans, which were still damp from the morning before and were starting to smell. Then he put his jacket on, not bothering with his t-shirt and jumper. He slid his feet into his shoes, not bothering with socks, found his keys, and walked out of the room. Sherlock was left gaping. He had no idea what he said that was so wrong.

**

Fortunately John’s wallet was in his jeans pocket, because he didn't want to walk the distance to Baker Street. Even if he had wanted to, he likely didn't have the energy to do it. He waved a cab down, jumped in the back seat, and directed the driver.

Back at Baker Street, he stripped out of his wet clothes and found some clean ones. He had calmed down on the ride home, and was a bit embarrassed at his outburst. Really, he didn't know what had come over him. He knew he had lost some weight recently. He just hadn't felt much like eating, so he didn't. He didn't need to eat much anyway, he hadn't been going to the gym working out, or running, not much of anything actually. So of course his appetite had waned. He didn't know why Sherlock had made such a big deal out of it.

He sat down on the sofa and turned on the telly, more for background noise than anything else. He didn't even know what was on the telly. But the noise comforted him, and he leaned his head back and rested it on the sofa, and just sat there for a long time.

John received a call on his mobile a few hours after later. Since he discharged himself without telling anyone, he had left without any medications. The nurse called to tell John to come back and pick up a prescription to complete the full course of antibiotics to treat his pneumonia. John told her he would, just to appease her, but he had no intention of going back to the hospital to get them. Being a doctor, he thought he knew better. He was well enough, he didn't need more medication. Besides, he’d recognize it if he got sick again and needed them. Plus, he didn't feel arsed to get out of the flat and hail a cab to go and get them.

Then he wondered again why he had gotten so angry at Sherlock. Sherlock _did_ interrupt his thoughts in hospital, but they weren't that important. Not important enough to yell at him over. All he had been thinking about how he landed in the jail at Devon…

He remembered being cold, and thinking about the physiological response his body was having to that. He had been cold, but not really that bad. At least he didn't think so at the time. He didn't think it would affect him the way it had.

By the time he decided he should return to Bill’s, his ability to think clearly must have been impaired, at least a little. He stood up from the bench, and couldn't remember which way it was back to the house. He stayed where he was, and turned around in circles, trying to recognize the way back. It was still dark, which hadn't helped. So he took his best guess and started walking. Fifteen minutes later he was still in the park, and he sat back down. He sat there for several minutes before resuming his previous attitude of lying on the bench.

Then, finally, after nights of not sleeping, he fell asleep on the bench. John doesn't remember that, of course. He doesn't remember anything after that until he woke up in hospital. But he supposed he must have fallen asleep, and suffered from the resultant hypothermia. That would explain why the police thought he was drunk. Hypothermia can cause slurred speech, clumsy movements, loss of coordination, slowed reflexes, and low blood sugar. That would certainly be consistent with someone who appeared drunk. For that matter, low blood sugar by itself could cause many of those symptoms.

John heard footsteps on the stairs, and the flat door opened. Sherlock stepped in, then stopped, looking at John. He was carrying a bag, which he handed over to John. It was John’s t-shirt, jumper and socks.

Sherlock didn't say a word. He turned his computer on, and started to work. John closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and opened them again. He stood, and went into the kitchen. “Tea?” The British answer to everything.

Sherlock hummed, which John took to mean yes.

John heated the kettle, made tea, and brought a mug to Sherlock. He put it down on the desk next to Sherlock’s computer, and put a hand between Sherlock’s shoulders. “I’m sorry… I shouldn't have snapped at you… I've just been tired lately.”

Sherlock stopped typing and looked at John doubtfully. John did look tired. There were bags under his eyes, and he was looking gaunt. Sherlock was worried about him. He turned towards John. “What happened in Devon?”

John huffed, but he didn't want to get angry at Sherlock again, so he tried his best to maintain his composure and explain. “It’s all stupid, really. I couldn't sleep. I've just not been sleeping well lately. So I took a walk. Went to the park. Fell asleep on the bench.” John raised his shoulders, then lowered them. “I guess I got cold when I fell asleep. Hypothermia. It fits with Maberley’s tests- low sugar, high potassium, liver insult. Could make me look drunk, uncoordinated, slurred speech.” John looked away, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock thought for a minute. “What about you being unresponsive after being at the police station 24 hours later?”

John shrugged again. “I think Maberly said it: exhaustion. I was dead tired. Hadn't slept for days… Probably still feeling the effects of the hypothermia, especially if they did nothing to treat me except bring me into the building. Likely took me a while to warm up… Throw in there the low blood sugar, and I still hadn't eaten.” John looked around, his expression a bit lost. Sherlock studied him for a bit.

“And the pneumonia?” Sherlock prompted.

John sighed deeply and thought. He furrowed his brow, and his eyes went up to the ceiling as he considered. “Hypothermia can cause immunosuppression in general, and can damage lung cells directly. Plus, since it diminishes all reflexes, it would decrease the cough reflex, predisposing me to pneumonia. Pneumonia is a common sequelae of hypothermia… Then the pneumonia may have also contributed to their inability to rouse me. Infection and septisemia, if the infection spread to the blood, could contribute to exhaustion as well.”

John walked to the sofa and slumped down as if the explanation caused a great exertion on his body. He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, then just sat there quietly with his eyes still closed.

Sherlock watched John for a moment, then turned to his computer. He had some research to do.

**

John awoke the next day to the melody of Bach’s Sonata #3. He lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, enjoying the impromptu concert. Sherlock continued to play for about an hour, until he ceased suddenly, and John heard his muffled voice.

Sherlock took the stairs to John’s bedroom two at a time, and knocked.

“Come in.”

Sherlock entered, looking excited. “Lestrade. We got a case.” He turned to leave but John stopped him.

“Sherlock… can you go on your own… I don’t feel much like going…” Sherlock turned abruptly, and strode to John’s bedside. He put the back of his hand to John’s forehead and felt, which made John chuckle. “No… I’m not sick… I feel loads better then yesterday… just a bit worn out…”

Sherlock peered into John’s eyes. “Of course. Are you sure?” John nodded.

Sherlock was quite concerned about John. He was not acting like himself. Sherlock had been doing some research on it on the internet, and he thought that he knew why. But it would be a difficult conversation, and it should not be rushed. It would be better to wait. Sherlock nodded back, and went back down the stairs.

John lay in bed most of the day, unable to get back to sleep and too tired to get up. He knew that Sherlock would do all right without him. He didn't do much to help anyways. Most of the time he just got in the way. Slowed down Sherlock. He was an idiot, after all. Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice that he wasn't there. Or if he did, he’d probably be thankful that John wasn't holding him back.

John reached for the latest James Patterson book _Private Berlin_ , and opened to the last page he read. He stared at the page for a few minutes before realizing that he didn't remember what he read. He tried reading again, but the words would not stay in his head. He tossed the book down in frustration.

Finally getting tired of the walls of his bedroom, John ambled down the stairs still in his pajamas. He turned on the telly and sat on the sofa. He didn't really watch, but it gave his eyes somewhere to focus.

**

It approached ten PM when John heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock opened the door, and closed it behind himself. His face was glowing, his raven curly hair lightly tussled, contrasting wonderfully with the crisp tailored look of his suit and great coat. John knew at a glance that Sherlock had solved the case. Solving a case would inspire Sherlock, feed his soul more than anything else that John knew.

Sherlock smiled at John. John tried to return the smile, but it was forced, and both men knew it. To cover the awkwardness, John offered to make tea.

“No, I’ll do it.” Sherlock offered. John didn't want to be fussed over, and he tried to object, but Sherlock was already in the kitchen filling the kettle.

Bringing the Tea out, Sherlock sat on the sofa next to John. “Have a good day?” His eyes glanced over John appraisingly. John knew that Sherlock noticed his pajamas and deduced, correctly, that John never got dressed, much less left the flat. John hummed noncommittally. “Do anything interesting?”

“What?… no.” John was irritated. “And why the sudden interest in my well being?” He added petulantly. John knew he was being unfair, but he really didn't want to talk to anyone right now.

Sherlock looked at him, searching his features. “John, I've always been interested in your well being.” He placed his hand on Johns. John started, and pulled back slightly before realizing what he was doing, then he pointedly left his hand with Sherlock’s. “I know I've never been great at communicating with you about my feelings. And, well, sentiment isn't exactly my strong suit, but I need to know what is happening with you, with us…” Sherlock waved his free hand back and forth between the two of them. “Have I done something wrong?”

John jerked his head up to look at Sherlock, who, to John’s surprise, looked genuinely confused. It not an expression John saw very often on his love. “No, god no… It’s not you… It’s me… no wait, that came out wrong…” He took a deep breath. “I’ve just been a bit down lately… A bit tired you know… it’ll pass.” John looked back down at his bare feet and sighed.

There was silence between the two of them for a minute. John was about to get up and make an excuse to go to bed when Sherlock started talking. “I know you've been tired lately. You sleep a lot, and your mail has stacked up on the desk… You haven’t touched your medical journals for a couple of months… there is a pile of them waited to be read. And when you do read, you stare at the page for minutes on end, turn the page, then end up going back and looking at the first page again. You can’t concentrate, and you’re not retaining what you've read.” John pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s and tapped them together nervously.

“You haven’t been to quiz night at the pub for a while. Lestrade told me. Even Mycroft noticed that you were quieter than normal.” John didn't say anything.

“I know you had a battery of tests done at hospital, and they all looked clean, more of less, so there is no evidence of cancer, or metabolic dis…”

John cut him off. “So what you’re saying is that you know I’m not sick, so I must just be a nutter.” He took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“No, I didn't say that at all. You are putting words in my mouth.”

John took a breath, as if to say something, but then just shook his head, let the breath out, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he didn't look at Sherlock.

“John, I just want to be able to help. What can I do to make you happy? You’re not happy with me anymore. I should be able to make you happy.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, there is nothing that you can do. And there is nothing that you did wrong. I’m sorry, but not everything is about you.”

Sherlock objected, and pressed a bit. “John, tell me what I can do… I have to be able to do something to make you better.”

John almost exploded at Sherlock. “Sherlock, no! There is nothing you can do! Do you ask someone with cancer or diabetes what you can do to make them better? This is no different… there is nothing that you can do to make it go away…”

John felt Sherlock’s eyes piercing him. John looked at him, and saw almost a triumphant look on his face. “So what you are saying is that you DO have a medical condition that needs treatment… like a cancer or diabetes, and that, just because I wish you to be better, that alone will not make it so.” John didn't answer. He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. His palm came up and covered his eyes while his thumb pressed one temple, and his forefinger the other. He gently massaged his temples while he focused on breathing. He lowered his hand, but kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to be talking about this. He just wanted to keep his eyes closed and fall asleep. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“John… Can I ask you something?” John hummed in response. “When you were in Devon, were you trying to… did you want to… I mean…” Sherlock stopped, not knowing how to continue.

John stilled, opened his eyes and rolled them, sighing heavily. “One thing I’ll never understand is when people ask if you are thinking about suicide. If I were seriously thinking about suicide, _really_ intended to go through with it, would I tell someone who could stop me? No. And similarly, if I _wasn't_ serious about going through with it, why would I tell someone I was? It just would cause more drama and draw attention to myself, which is NOT what I would want. So either way, my answer would be no. So why bother asking.” John shut his eyes again.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward. “John, does that mean… Is that…” Sherlock stopped.

John looked at Sherlock. “No. No. I wasn't trying to do anything like that. I just couldn't sleep; I was restless, took a walk, sat on a bench and fell asleep. That’s it.” Sherlock studied him. Since John was the world’s worst liar, Sherlock could tell he was telling the truth, and relaxed considerably.

John continued. “What I felt at the time was apathy. Complete, deep down to my bones apathy. I didn't care what happened. I didn't care if I got wet. I didn't care if I got cold. I didn't care if I fell asleep. Hell, I didn't care if I got mugged.” Sherlock cringed at this. “What ever fate had in store for me, I’d accept it. I just _didn't care_ what it was.”

John looked at Sherlock now that he was opening up. “Have you ever played a game, and in your mind looked ahead 4 or 5 moves, and realized that no matter how you played it, you weren't going to win?” Sherlock shook his head. “No, of course you haven’t. Well, _pretend_ that you were playing chess with Mycroft, or Moriarty, or someone who might provide a little challenge to your massive intellect. And you realized that no matter what move you made, it would result either in check mate by your opponent, or a stale mate. It would take all the fun out of playing the rest of the game. Nothing you did would matter. It wouldn't change anything. You’d just want to quit the game and start a new one… That’s how I feel.” John leaned forward, put his elbows to his knees and his chin on his hands. He closed his eyes once again.

Sherlock put a hand on John’s back and rubbed it. “It doesn't have to be like that John. I've been doing some reading, some research. What you are feeling, it’s a result of imbalances in your neurotransmitters in your brain. It’s a medical condition. There are medications that will help balance the neurotransmitters and make you feel better. And talk therapy can help you with some coping strategies.”

John huffed. “I don’t need that diagnosis in my medical record, that I’m a nutter. I don’t want to be sectioned, and have everyone walking on eggshells around me, worried that I’m going to off myself. No. Not going to do it.” He was shaking his head.

“But John…”

“Sherlock, just leave it.” He was adamant.

**

Three days later Lestrade texted Sherlock for help on a double murder case. It was eleven AM, and Sherlock had heard John walking around his bedroom just a few minutes earlier, so he knew he was awake. Sherlock shouted up the stairs. “John, Lestrade has a double murder for us.” Sherlock was already dressed; he just needed to grab his great coat. Realizing that he hadn't heard John, he stopped midway to the flat door, and listened. “John?” He started strolling back towards the stairs up to John’s bedroom. “John?”

“Yeah, go on without me… I’m dead tired.” He voice sounded hoarse and strained.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, but he didn't want to miss out on the case. After all, John was still recovering. “You sure?” Sherlock persisted, and he heard John reply in the affirmative.

John was laying in his bed, having not slept very well through out the night. His body was aching, and he felt warm. But being on the top floor, his bedroom was the first one to heat up. He rolled out of bed, and walked over to the window, which he slid open. The breeze felt cool and refreshing against his skin.

John returned to his bed, curled up on his side, and closed his eyes.

**

Sherlock had been concerned about John since his return from Devon. More than he usually was. Sherlock had been pretty successful integrating a relationship with John into his life, involving emotion and sentiment and somehow making it work with out it causing too many distractions. Today seemed like an exception. He was having a hard time concentrating on the case having left John at home. He had a gut feeling, an intuition, that something wasn't right. Sherlock wasn't prone to worrying about John. The man was more than capable of taking care of himself. Usually. But things had been different lately, with John unable to admit he had some problems.

It was getting late in the afternoon, and Sherlock and Lestrade had just finished questioning a suspect, when Sherlock decided to check on John, and bring him dinner. John hadn't been eating well, had lost quite a bit of weight, and Sherlock was determined to help him gain it back. John had spent many nights trying to get Sherlock to eat, it seemed only natural to do the same for John. Sherlock sent him a quick text.

 _Chinese? SH_

It took perhaps ten minutes to get a reply. Sherlock decided that John must have been sleeping, or in the shower, or something. But then the reply startled him.

 _They’re not here._

Sherlock had no idea what that meant, only that it seemed bizarre. He showed Greg the messages, just in case there was some pop culture reference that Sherlock was missing, but Greg was just as puzzled. Sherlock decided to go back to Baker Street immediately.

“Let me know if you need any help, or if I can do anything.” Greg offered, continuing to ponder the strange message. Sherlock just nodded, and whirled around, his coat flowing behind him.

At Baker Street, Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and flew through the door. The flat was quiet. The lights were all off, the telly was off. Nothing appeared to be any different than from when Sherlock left in the late morning. Even his tea mug was still in the sink. John usually did the washing up when he found dishes.

Sherlock checked his bedroom, in case John had any designing plans (hopeful thinking), then took the stairs up to John’s bedroom two at a time. When he opened the door he was hit by a breeze of cold wind. John was in bed, wearing nothing but his pants, covered only by a sheet. Sherlock strode rapidly up to him and saw perspiration dripping off of his face, and the sheets soaked in sweat. He touched John’s face, and he was burning up. Sherlock felt his pulse, and it was rapid… too rapid.

John stirred and opened his eyes, and tried to focus on Sherlock. “Where’s Grandma?” John asked, concern etched in his face. Sherlock was taken aback.

“John, it’s me, Sherlock.” Sherlock sat down on the bed next to John and rubbed his shoulders, hoping that John was just asleep. John mumbled something incoherent, then starting coughing, just a little, but it was deep and moist sounding. “John…”

John seemed to become more lucid, and his eyes focused on the genius. “Sherlock.” That one word seemed to drain his energy, but Sherlock was thankful for it.

“John, we have to get you back to the hospital. I think your pneumonia is back.”

John’s mind started working. “No… I’m not going back there. Tired of hospitals.”

“John, you need to see a doctor.”

“In case you don’t remember, I am a doctor.” John’s attempt at humor failed.

Sherlock went to John’s wardrobe and pulled out a pair of trousers, a t-shirt and a jumper. He pulled the sheet off of John, helped him to a sitting position, and carefully dressed him. John did not object, but he also wasn't doing too much to help Sherlock.

“Sherlock… I’m serious. I don’t want to go back…” John took a slow breath. “Take me to the walk in clinic down the street… just not back to hospital.” The look on John’s face was pleading, and Sherlock gave in.

**

John started shivering by the time his name was called at the clinic. Sherlock helped John to his feet, and steadied him as he walked to the consulting room. Inside was a young, pretty blond haired doctor with an engaging smile. “Hi, I’m Doctor Sawyer.” She looked back and forth between John and Sherlock, deducing correctly that John was her patient.

Sherlock gave a brief summary of the events of the past few days, concluding with John storming out of the hospital. John looked sheepish at Sherlock’s rendition. Sherlock wondered if John would have hit on this young doctor if he was not involved with Sherlock, and he decided quite correctly that he would have. But Sherlock was not jealous. He knew that he and John were made for each other.

Doctor Sawyer looked in John’s eyes, nose, mouth and ears, listened to his heart and lungs, took his temperature, pulse and blood pressure, and wrote notes down on a chart.

The trip down the street to the clinic had taken most of John’s energy, so he slumped into the chair when Dr. Sawyer was finished examining him. He closed his eyes, and felt himself drifting when a voice brought him back.

“So, what did Dr. Maberley send you home on?” John didn't answer and Sherlock looked back and forth between John and the G.P.

Sherlock prompted John. “John?”

“Emm, sorry. He didn't. Send me home on anything that is.” John looked at the young woman with a blond pony tail as he said this.

Doctor Sawyer was used to difficult patients, and she remembered what Sherlock told her. “Oh, right, you left without a prescription, didn't you? You just walked out… discharged yourself? And being a surgeon, you figured you knew better and didn't bother going back for it?” Sherlock liked her. John looked embarrassed. “Right then, I’ll just contact Dr. Maberley and see what he recommends.” She excused herself to locate his contact information and phone him.

Several minutes later the long haired doctor reemerged with a prescription bottle. “If I send these home, will you actually take them?” There was a glint in her eyes. She was flirting, but John felt too crummy to enjoy it, so he just nodded. “We need to get you some IV antibiotics today, you’re quite sick you know… Oh, you probably didn't know that since it looks like you were dragged in here.” She winked at Sherlock, who just stared at her, unsure what to do.

After jotting down a few phrases in the medical record, Dr. Sawyer queried “Anything else I can do for you?” John was looking at his feet, so Sherlock kicked John’s shoe with his. John looked up at him and there was a brief silent conversation, the kind that can only take place between two people who know each other extremely well. It ended by John inclining his head once, just a bit.

Sherlock waited a few seconds, and it was clear that John wasn't going to initiate the conversation, so Sherlock did. “The good doctor here” Sherlock motioned with his head towards John “has not been feeling well lately.” Dr. Sawyer felt a shift in the energy of the room, so she too grew serious. “He’s been moody… irritable… lethargic but restless, not sleeping well… not eating, so he’s lost weight, a good two stone I’d say.” The blond haired woman tried to hide her surprise, but a bit too late. “He can’t concentrate, or focus on tasks, and he-“

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, I think she gets the idea.” John interrupted him, a bit irked, then looked at Dr. Sawyer. “It’s the black dog.”

Sherlock frowned, half wondering if John was making a joke or trying to change the subject. Or maybe it was a pop culture reference that he was unaware of. But it didn't matter, as the two doctors appeared to understand each other.

“How long has this been going on?”

“A few months I’d say. And before you ask, no, there is no specific reason why. No deaths, significant lifestyle changes, nothing like that. It came out of nowhere. They just did all my labs in hospital, so that rules out most other etiologies.” John felt relieved to finally be talking to someone who could help him.

“Any family members diagnosed with depression?”

John shrugged. “I’m not really close with anyone. I have a sister, but I don’t know where she is… and my parents died a while ago.”

Dr. Sawyer weighed her thoughts. It was clear to her that John already knew his diagnosis, as did the striking man with him. She was just the facilitator.

“Well, we have several options as you know. What I usually recommend is a combination approach of an SSRI or SNRI with therapy. Is that something that you would consider?” It was clear that the young woman had treated many people for depression. John just nodded as he started to feel a scratchiness to his throat, and he knew if he talked too much more it would incite a coughing fit.

“Anything else?”

John and Sherlock both shook their heads.

Dr. Sawyer looked at each of them, and gave them a few moments in case they thought of anything else. Then she continued. “Right then, I’ll get someone in here to insert an IV on you while I jot down some names of therapists. Then I’ll be back to give the dose of antibiotics, and I’ll bring the antidepressants as well. _And_ , you _will_ remember to take the bottle of antibiotics home and you _will_ take _all_ of them, right?” She teased him. John managed a small grin at that.

**

Two months later…

Sherlock and John were panting and sweating, side by side in bed. After regaining his breath, Sherlock slid his feet to the floor, sat up, and pushed himself to his feet. He retrieved a wet flannel and cleaned John, then himself.

As he wiped John’s chest and stomach, he appreciated his lover’s well chiseled muscles that had been absent for several months. John had put the weight back on that he lost, nearly all of it, when he started eating again and returned to his routine at the gym.

Sherlock was relieved that John was John again, not the empty shell that he had been for a while. It took several weeks to notice a difference, but slowly John’s mood evened out, he became less moody and irritable. His sense of humor returned, and the small gestures of affection that had disappeared began to reemerge. The gentle brushes of John’s hand against his, the spontaneous kisses, the way he ran his finger’s through Sherlock’s soft locks. The winks and the sparkle in the older man’s eye. Sherlock had missed those things.

Sherlock threw the now sticky flannel on the floor, and climbed back under the sheets, next to the love of his life.

The best unexpected benefit was the effect that it had on their sex life. Some of the frequency and intensity of their affections had waned. But in hindsight, most of that had occurred in the past six months, and came on gradually. Sherlock, not having had any significant long term relationships before John, had assumed that it was part of the whole _relationship thing_. Something that happens with couples who have been together for a while. So it was a pleasant surprise when John’s interest in sex returned as his treatment progressed. The intensity, the spark, the enthusiasm for the newness of each encounter reappeared. Until then, Sherlock hadn't realized how much John’s illness had affected him as well.

Sherlock turned on his side and propped himself up on one elbow. He was grinning like a smitten teenager at John. John reached over and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s black curls, one of his favorite things to do. Hoping that he knew the answer to the question, Sherlock asked anyways. “Seen the black dog lately?”

John shook his head. “Not a trace of him, for weeks now.” Sherlock continued to smile, then slowly leaned forward and found John’s mouth with his. John playfully flipped Sherlock on his back, pinning Sherlock’s hips with his hips, and Sherlock’s hands over his head in a one-handed grip, and with his other hand, ran a finger over the prone man’s side, exactly where he was most ticklish.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been asked, and the "Dark" in the title does not refer to outside.  
> Thanks for reading!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] When Dark And Cold Collide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342072) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




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